Bolt From The Black
TYTHON
"Shadow Creed here. I've arrived on Tython."
Drystan tapped the communicator in his ear, tuning into

"I won't be joining you all, as I have my own mission. May the Force be w—"
His eyes narrowed as a hissing sound cut through the fog, followed by a rattle—then a roar.
A plant-like tentacle came smashing down at him. Before the stone-crushing blow could land, Drystan flipped to the side, twisting mid-air to face his attacker.
Before him stood a ravenous drengir, its many-fanged maw gaping as it stared him down. Drystan's responded with a shake of the head, followed by a click of his tongue.
"Ah, hate to cut this short. My date's here. Bye."
He cut communications, spreading his arms out in mock welcome, a low chuckle escaping him.
"Glad I got your attention. I was beginning to feel a little ignored."
The drengir hissed, its massive form coiling in agitation.
"I WILL ENJOY DIGESTING YOUR ARROGANCE ALONG WITH YOUR BODY AS I FEAST UPON IT!"
It lunged, its jaws gnashing, eager to clamp down on Drystan's upper body. But the bite never landed.
Drystan's arms shot up, palms pressed against the inside of its jaws, holding them open. The Drengir struggled, but Drystan's force-augmented strength kept its mouth pried apart, its fangs snapping inches from his face.
He grunted, his muscles tensing.
"As appealing as that sounds—"
A sudden burst of strength. He wrenched its maw open and launched himself backward, slipping from its grasp with ease.
"I'll pass."
Before another roar could shake the trees, Drystan was already moving. A blur of motion, and then a lancing stab from his right palm.
The drengir's gargled screech filled the air as Drystan's hand speared forward, his palm embedding deep into its writhing body.
A hum left his lips. Golden lightning coalesced in his palm.
Bolts of electricity surged through the drengir's twisting form, scorching it from within, the intensity rising with every microsecond, turning the dim clearing into a blazing spectacle of golden arcs.
And then—
KRAKOW!
A flash—blinding.
Drystan pulled his hand free, stepping back as the drengir stood frozen, its pale green form turned black—a charred sculpture of what it once was, solidified ash still holding its twisted form.
He dusted his hand along the fabric of his pants, casting the now-lifeless husk an amused glance.
"There. I think this look suits you better."
And with that, the ash sculpture crumbled, scattering to the forest floor like dust in the wind.

